


last blues for bloody knuckles

by endlessnighttimesky



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At least the other guys don't have guns, or bats, or even knives. Just their fists, and while Mickey only has two and put together the others have six, he's got a butterfly knife that he doesn't go anywhere without, and Ian never thought he'd say this, but suddenly he's grateful as fuck that Mickey's last name is Milkovich and not something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	last blues for bloody knuckles

**Author's Note:**

> Title by La Dispute.

Ian's not entirely sure how it happens. They're on their way home from the Kash and Grab, weaving through alleys and backstreets, shoulders bumping and hands twining in the fabric of each other's shirts - it's been three years since that day in Mickey's room and he's not as afraid anymore, what with Terry being in prison and his brothers downstate for a drug run over the weekend. He won't hold Ian's hand in public, let alone kiss him, but he doesn't flinch when Ian's fingers brush his anymore.

The sky is darkening above them, moon hanging low and heavy among the fleeting clouds, casting a glow over the city that doesn't quite reach the grimy corners of south Chicago, leaving shadowed spots for Mickey to press Ian into, t-shirt caught on the roughness of the brick behind his back.

Well, Ian kind of does know how it happens, at least in retrospect. But in that moment - Mickey's mouth warm on his, hands rough and calloused against his jaw - he's too high on the warmth of another body pressed against him to really react. Mickey does, though, and thank God for that.

At least the other guys don’t have guns, or bats, or even knives. Just their fists, and while Mickey only has two and put together the others have six, he's got a butterfly knife that he doesn't go anywhere without, and Ian never thought he'd say this, but suddenly he's grateful as fuck that Mickey's last name is Milkovich and not something else.

It's a quick affair, after that - Ian's pretty sure Mickey doesn't actually cut any of them, just flips the knife over his knuckles a few times and maybe holds it to one or two of their throats, mumbling rough and low in their ears what he'd do if he had more time, which organs he'd take first.

Ian just stands there, shocked, while Mickey lands another three punches to their jaws before they're stumbling away, disappearing down the alley and into the darkness. He wonders, for a split second, why he's just standing there - he's been in enough fights himself, and that experience combined with everything he's learned in ROTC should've managed to get those guys running back home within a few minutes.

But he couldn't reach them. There was something in the way - someone, Ian realizes, and that someone was Mickey. He'd put a hand to Ian's chest and pushed him back - had protected him, and if Ian wasn't dizzy enough before, he definitely is now.

Blinking his eyes open - when the fuck did he even close them - he looks at Mickey. "Oh, shit. Mickey, are you - "

"I'm fine," Mickey grunts, but the words are a stark contrast against his face - there are bruises blooming over his cheekbone and jaw, darkness around his left eye, blood from his nose mingling with blood from what looks like a split lower lip. Looking down, Ian glances at his knuckles - bruised and bloody, those too, and while Ian's pretty sure a fair amount of the blood there belongs to the other guys, it's still too much for some of it not to be Mickey's.

"Are you kidding me?" One foot in front of the other and then Ian's cradling Mickey's face in his hands, turning it this way and that way to examine the damage. "You're bleeding fuckin' everywhere, you're not fine, Mickey, you're - "

"Ian."

Ian stops. He can count the times Mickey's called him by his first name on one hand, and he only does it when Ian's freaking out, or not listening to him. There was that other time, too, soft and low in Mickey's bedroom while the house stood empty around them, but Ian's not going to think about it or he might just actually start crying, because he already sort of wants to.

"Sorry," Ian says, because he _was_ freaking out - maybe not as much as Mickey thinks, but a little, he'll admit that. "It's just - you're bleeding. Everywhere. Seriously."

Fiona won't appreciate it, but Ian supposes that if it is for a greater good - like the preservation of Mickey's face and the way it's currently arranged, nose and mouth and eyes in all the right places - Fiona won't mind washing the blood out of his t-shirt, so he decides to sacrifice the piece of clothing by pulling it over his head and rolling it into a ball for Mickey to hold against his nose, or mouth, or whatever part of his face that's causing it to be fucking covered in blood.

"Because walking home shirtless in the middle of the night together totally won't get us fucking killed," Mickey mutters, but he takes the t-shirt and presses it against his nose, wincing a little.

"They'll just think we're drunk," Ian says, which is probably more likely than anyone assuming that they fuck each other on a daily basis. "There are probably more alcoholics than gay guys here, anyway. We'll be fine. Now come on." He slings an arm over Mickey's shoulder, and unlike that time when Ian and Mandy picked him up from juvie, he doesn't shrug it off, at least not immediately. "Let's get you patched up." 

§ § §

"My house is that way," Mickey comments at a crosswalk, gesturing in the direction opposite to the one they're going.

"Who says we're going to your house?" Ian says, tugging Mickey along up the street.

"Who the fuck says we're going to _your_ house?"

"Does your house have a first aid kit?" Ian asks, one eyebrow raised.

Mickey just grunts and rolls his eyes.

Ian grins. "Exactly."

§ § §

Mickey doesn't mind the Gallagher house. He likes it more than his own, even - not that he'd tell Ian that. Ian probably knows, anyway. It's more the inhabitants of the house that he's got an issue with - or, more accurately, he thinks they have an issue with him. Which they might have had, sure, but not anymore. If Mickey only was willing to fucking realize that.

Mickey’s never been good with that sort of thing, though - family. And not just in the sense of sharing firearms and tire irons, but in the sense of being there for each other no matter what, and accepting your sons and daughters and brothers and sisters just the way they are. No, that’s never been a thing in the Milkovich house.

Mickey was at least hoping that some of the Gallaghers would be out, and if any were left in the house, that they would be asleep - it’s late enough - but when has the universe ever let him have his way, anyway? So obviously they’re all sprawled on various pieces of furniture in the living room when Ian drags Mickey inside. Mickey, whose face is swelling more and more for every minute passing, and who’s still bleeding on absolutely everything.

Fiona is the first to say something. ”Holy shit, Mickey.” She’s on her feet within seconds, retrieving a first aid kit from - Mickey doesn’t even know, somewhere, the Gallagher house is a fucking mess and while his house is the same, that’s his mess, and he knows how it works. The Gallagher kind of mess, not so much.

Meanwhile, Ian’s steering him through the house and pushing him into a chair by the dining table. Within minutes, the other chairs have been filled too, the one to Mickey’s left by Ian and the one to his right by Fiona, then Lip, Debbie, Carl, and Jimmy with Liam in his lap.

Mickey would never admit it, but he’s kind of intimidated. Contrary to what seems to be a relatively popular belief, he’s never been good with being the center attention, at least not in situations like these, when no one’s throwing punches at him and he’s not throwing any at anyone else.

”What do you need?” Fiona asks from behind him - his chair is turned so that he’s facing Ian, who’s chair is also turned, towards Mickey.

”Um.” Ian eyes the objects on the table - bottles of various sizes with various contents, rolls of different kinds of fabric, a shitload of band-aids. ”That,” he says, reaching for a rectangular piece of thick cotton that he pulls a bit from, rolling it up into a ball. ”And some saline solution, if there is any.”

Fiona pulls out a bottle from the bag she’s got in front of her on the table, handing it to Ian who uncaps it and soaks the cotton in the fluid. Mickey’s still holding Ian’s t-shirt to his face, and with a gentle hand on Mickey’s wrist, Ian gets him to lower it.

Around them, people are talking, but Mickey feels kind of distanced from it, everyone's voices sounding far away. Carl is hypothesizing about what happened, complete with descriptions of what the hopes Mickey did to the other guys, and Fiona is lazily chastising him while Lip corrects the physically impossible aspects of what Carl's saying, which is pretty much all of it. Debbie is handing Ian piece after piece of cotton and Jimmy is talking to Liam about who-the-fuck-knows, it's all blubbering and strange noises, but they seem to have a good time despite the slight differences in verbal ability.

Mickey grits his teeth through the peroxide - Debbie is hanging over Ian's shoulder with a sympathetic expression on her face, and Mickey can't help but smile at her a little, even through the pain, which makes both her and Ian smile back at him. Ian is as careful as ever but Mickey's entire face is pretty much half bruise, half open wound, so it doesn't really matter how catious he is, it's still gonna hurt. Even then, this is a pretty minor injury, compared to, let's say, a fucking bullet wound.

Once everything's been rinsed and cleaned out, Mickey's pretty sure he's cleaner than he was when he woke up this morning, which probably isn't a bad thing. Either way, that means it's time for band-aids and butterfly bandages, and in the end, Mickey's got four of the first covering his hands and three of the latter sticking to his face.

"All done," Ian says as the sticks the last bandage to the split skin under Mickey's left eye, smiling softly.

"Thanks," Mickey mumbles, feeling a little dazed and tired now that the adrenaline's wearing off.

"Come on, now," Fiona tells the kids, rising from the table as she starts putting the contents of the first aid kit back in the bag. "Time for bed. Debbie, make sure Carl brushes his teeth. Lip, c'mere." She pulls Lip aside and whispers something in his ear, to which Lip makes a face, but eventually he nods.

"She's making him give us his room," Ian tells Mickey, looking all kinds of smug.

"You owe me!" Lip calls to Ian as he runs up the stairs. "Big time!"

Ian just laughs and goes to grab a bottle of beer from the fridge. "Want one?"

Mickey nods and catches the bottle Ian throws him, twisting off the cap and gulping down a third before he sags down in his chair, chin resting on the arms he's got crossed on the table.

"Tired?" Ian asks, walking over to squeeze at Mickey's tense-as-fuck shoulders.

Mickey mumbles something that very much resembles, "Fuck off," which is almost less surprising than if he hadn't said anything. Definitely less surprising, actually.

"C'mon, then," Ian coaxes, tugging at the sleeve of Mickey's blood-stained t-shirt. "You can borrow some of my clothes.”

§ § §

Once they've got Mickey in a clean shirt and a pair of Ian's sweatpants, they lie down on the mattress in Lip's room, beer bottles standing empty and discarded on the floor beside them. 

Mickey is sleepy in the way that keeps him from protesting when Ian rolls close, curled up against Mickey's chest, and it should look ridiculous, what with his muscular limbs and tall stature, but it just makes Mickey want to wrap his arms around him and never let go. Not that he'd admit that to anyone ever for as long as he lives, so he settles for wrapping an arm around Ian's shoulders and burying his face in his hair, breathing in the smoke and cologne, breathing in Ian.

"Thank you," Ian mumbles after a few minutes of strangely peaceful silence. He's not sure if Mickey's still awake, but whether he is or not doesn't matter - he'll just tell Mickey again once he wakes up.

Mickey isn't asleep, though - not yet, anyway. He can feel his eyelids drooping and his mind is hazy, and it takes him a while to realize that he's supposed to say something back. "For what?"

"For beating up those guys," Ian clarifies quietly. "No one's ever done that for me before."

Mickey wants to say that he didn't do it for Ian, but that's a lie and they both know it. "Lip?"

"Well, when I was younger, maybe. I don't know. Now we mostly do it together. You wouldn't let me, though."

Mickey shrugs. "Didn't want you to get hurt," he says, but what Ian hears is, _I don't want to hurt you._

The words  - the ones Mickey actually said or the ones that were implied, Ian doesn't know, doesn't care, it doesn't matter - make Ian's heart swell in his chest, which is all kinds of ridiculous, but he can't help it. It's the most romantic thing Mickey's ever said to him, he's pretty sure, and he learned a long while ago that what you see is what you get with Mickey - he's not a liar, not when it comes to things like these. If he didn't know that Mickey would definitely punch him for it, Ian would probably cry.

"Either way," Ian says. "Thank you."

Mickey makes a noise that Ian guesses is supposed to mean, "You're welcome," or, "No problem." Whatever, it gets the point across.

Ian debates it for approximately 0.2 seconds before he says, "I love you." Within even less time than that, he feels Mickey's arm stiffen around him, but Ian doesn't mind. This isn't really about Ian in the way that he wants Mickey to say it back - he just thinks that Mickey deserves to know, because he does. Love him, that is.

"Don't worry," Ian mumbles, running his hand along the bumps and dents of Mickey's ribs, under his t-shirt. "You don't have to say it. I just wanted you to know."

Mickey is quiet for a few moments before he relaxes into the matters, exhaling slowly. Ian has to strain his ears to hear him when he says, "I do, though."

If Ian's heart was big before, then it's going to burst out of his ribcage now. He squirms around a little until he can press his lips to Mickey's neck, push his nose up under his jaw and breathe in his scent, sweat and smoke and the lingering tang of blood. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Mickey says.

Ian falls asleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
